“What a pity a fellow like Dan can’t turn over a new leaf,” came from Tom Rover.  “He’s bright enough in his way, and would make a first-rate chap.”

“It’s not in the blood,” went on Dick.  “We’ll have to keep our eyes open, that’s all.  If anything, Dan is probably more angry at us than ever, for he believes we were the sole means of his father being put in prison.”

“Old Baxter deserved all he got,” murmured Sam.

“So he did.”

“Well, if Dan Baxter ever bothers me he’ll catch it warm,” came from Tom.  “I shan’t attempt to mince matters with him.  Everybody at this school knows what a bully he was, and they know, too, what a rascal he’s been since he left.  So I say, let him beware!” And so bringing the conversation to an end for the time being, Tom Rover ran across the gymnasium floor, leaped up and grasped a turning-bar stationed there, and was soon going through a number of exercises recently taught to him by the new “gym” teacher.

“Gracious, but Tom is getting to be a regular circus gymnast!” cried Sam, as he watched his brother in admiration.  “Just see what beautiful turns he is making.”

“Humph! that aint so wonderful,” came from someone at Sam’s elbow, and turning the youngest Rover found himself dose to Billy Tubbs, a short, stocky youth who had entered Putnam Hall at the opening of the fall term.  Tubbs was a boy of rich parentage, and while he was not particularly a bully, he considered himself of great importance and vastly superior to the majority of his associates.

“All right, Tubby; if it isn’t so wonderful, just you jump up and do it,” returned Sam coldly.

“Look here, how many times have I told you not to call me Tubby!” burst out the rich youth.  “I don’t like it at all.”

“Then what shall we call you?” asked Sam innocently.  “Tubblets?”

“No, I don’t want you to call me Tubblets either.  My name is Tubbs—­William Philander Tubbs.”

“Gosh!  Am I to say all that whenever I want to address you?” demanded Sam, with a pretended gasp for breath.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t.  It’s my name.”

“But Tubby—­I mean Tubblets—­no, Willander Philliam Tubbs—­the name is altogether too long.  Why, supposin’ you were standing on a railroad track looking east, and an express train was coming from the west at the rate of seventy-five miles an hour, and it got to within a hundred yards of you when I discovered your truly horrible peril, and I should start to warn you of the aforesaid truly horrible peril, take my word for it, before I could utter such an elongated personal handle as that, you’d be struck and distributed along that track for a distance of a mile and a quarter.  No, Tubby, my conscience wouldn’t allow it—­really it wouldn’t.”  And Sam shook his head seriously.

“See here, what are you giving me?” roared Tubbs wrathfully.  “Don’t you worry about my standing on a railroad track and asking you to call me off.”  And then he added, with a red face, as a laugh went up from half a dozen students standing near:  “William Philander Tubbs is my name, and I shan’t answer to any other after this.”